


Dinner for Six

by questionsleftunanswered



Series: It's Important to Me [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family Dinner, Holmes Estate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsleftunanswered/pseuds/questionsleftunanswered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets the rest of Sherlock's family for the first time. Sherlock is less than happy to be having family dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner for Six

**Author's Note:**

> I fixed the spacing issue. I edited the HTML myelf so if you spot an issue, please let me know. Thanks!

“But I don’t want you to meet her. Besides, Mycroft is incredibly over protective of Mummy.” Sherlock lay draped over the sofa wearing his usual blue dressing down and pyjamas. The fact that it was 3 in the afternoon made no difference.

“I want to meet her. Consider it a learning experience.” John did not even both looking over the edge of his book. He sat comfortably cross legged in his worn arm chair.

Sherlock got up and flounced towards the kitchen. He began making tea. John could hear the slamming and the none-too-gentle production of Sherlock’s very specific blend of tea. Then there came a very audible “Fuck! Oh, shit.”

John got up and rushed to the kitchen, “Sherlock!” He went over to Sherlock who was clutching one hand in the other. His face screwed up in pain and agitation.

“Sherlock, let me see what you did,” John said. He adopted the composure of a doctor. He gently took Sherlock’s hand in his own. There was an angry red burn covering the heel of his palm. It had already begun to blister, but was not anything too serious.

“Sherlock, how did you do this?” John let Sherlock’s hand go and went to the freezer to get ice. He wrapped it in a towel and brought Sherlock back to the couch.

Sherlock kept his satisfaction to himself. He had honestly not intended to burn his hand, but that he did was distracting John from their previous conversation.

“I asked you how you did this.” John had taken the seat beside him and was holding Sherlock’s hand in his lap, the towel of ice resting on top of it.

“I went to pick up the kettle and it was hot.” Sherlock replied.

“Of course it was hot!”

“I know tea gets hot, John. It was an accident.”

“Right, well, please be more careful. If this had happened with the experiment you were doing last week, you would have burned your hand completely off.”

“Yes, thank you, Mummy.” Sherlock bit his tongue. He had just reminded John.

“Right. About that, I am going to meet your mother. Mycroft is welcome to come and bring the Calvary as well. I want to meet your family.” John persisted.

“Fine, but don’t expect her to like you. Mother is very particular with…social standings. Undoubtedly why Mycroft is her favourite.” Sherlock said with an edge of bitterness.

John gathered Sherlock into his lap and tucked Sherlock’s head under his chin; burying his nose in the lazy curls.

After a while, John asked, “Does it still hurt? It wasn’t that bad of a burn.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock said curtly. His long limbs were spilling over the side of the sofa.

John lazing ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, enjoying the rare silence. Sherlock rolled and rearranged himself, resting his head in John's lap, his hand slung over his head. Stretched out on the couch, John couldn't help but think, once again, that Sherlock was amazing.

"About Mummy," John began.

Sherlock quickly cut him off, "I don't want to talk about it. I want to lay here, let you feel important by taking care of my hand, and go through my file of algorithms."

John was insistent. "Sherlock. You can't just drop the subject. If I wanted to, I could just meet her on my own."

"I'd like to see you try. You couldn't get through Mycroft. He's annoyingly through."

"He might help me out," John looks down at his lap, giving Sherlock a questioning glance, "Mycroft is alright with me, right?"

"Mycroft's opinion is impartial."

"Wait," John's tone sliding into concern, "Your brother doesn't like me? What have I ever done to the bloke? Do the rest of your siblings like me?"

"Mycroft doesn't like anyone in relation to Mummy. I have no idea how Violet or Sherrinford view you. I don’t speak to them as much."

Sherlock returned John's confusion with a sideways smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

John gave up and slouched against the couch, causing Sherlock to shift again in order to be comfortable.

They stayed like that for the rest of the day, each occasionally getting up for tea. On occasion, Sherlock would break the silence to ask John questions. John would always set Moby Dick aside and answer.

"John, would you still be with me if I wasn't this smart?"

"Yes."

Ten minutes later.

"John, how many times have you read that book?"

"Four times, I think. I can't really remember."

Ten minutes later.

"John, can we go out for dinner tonight?"

"Yes, we can invite your Mum and siblings."

Twenty minutes later.

"John, I'm bored."

"That's nice, Sherlock."

Thirty minutes later.

John set his book aside, his hand automatically returned to stroking Sherlock's head.

"So tomorrow night then. We'll have dinner with Mycroft, Violet, Sherrinford, and your Mum." John stood and left, leaving no room for argument.

He went to the window and waved to the CCTV camera. There was an instant knock at the door. John opened it to see a man dressed in common clothes.

"You waved, sir." He said.

"Yes. Please tell Mycroft that Sherlock and I are having dinner with their Mum tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir." The man snapped to attention and then walked off.

John went back into their flat and was greeted by a rather cross Sherlock.

John just reclaimed his seat on the couch.

***

"Sherlock, are you ready?” John called up the stairs. They were already late. It was going to take about an hour to even get to Mayfair. John had no desire to start off meeting Sherlock’s Mum on a bad impression.

“I’m coming.” Sherlock replied from their bedroom.

John was dressed in a plain black suit and tie. Nothing exceptional, but he still felt that he should dress properly.

Sherlock came down the stairs and looked simply elegant, naturally. A crisp black suit, plain white shirt and…the next sight stopped John in his tracks.

“Sherlock, are your shoes…sparkly?” John asked tentatively. Looking down, he could see that he was right. Sherlock would have been wearing regular black leather shoes, were it not for the incredible amount of sparkles that coated every surface of them.

“Mum bought them for me. She though they would make me more…appealing. I have to wear them. I have sought out a loophole many times. Mum insists that I wear them.” Sherlock forced out. John knew that Sherlock would never voluntarily wear such noticeable shoes. He was even more eager to meet the woman who had this level of power over the man who seemed to be a god.

“Did you intend to wear a tie?” John asked.

“John I am already in these flamboyant shoes, and you know my distaste for ties. I have no obligations that require a neck tie.” Sherlock replied haughtily.

John bit his lip. He really wanted to ask Sherlock if Mycroft was required to wear certain things as well, but he knew better than to push the issue.

They slid into the limousine that was idling outside of their flat.

“G’day Misters Holmes,” said the driver amicably.

“We’re not married, Andrew.” Sherlock said curtly. John was put off by the venom in his voice. Then he realized that Andrew had automatically assumed that John would take Sherlock’s name. He couldn’t place it, but this bothered him. He set it aside to worry about later, at the moment there were more important things to survive.

“M’ apologies, Mr. Holmes. I had assumed differently.” Andrew didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.

They spent the rest of the time in pleasant conversation. About 30 minutes in, Sherlock hand crept over to cover John’s. It was a simple gesture, but John appreciated it all the same.

By the time they pulled up outside of the sprawling Holmes Estate, John was feeling better about meeting the family.

The moment he followed Sherlock out of the car, he was flooded with questions and wishes of welcome from a young woman who had eyes as pale and sharp as Sherlock’s and who was nearly as tall.

“Hello, mate. Violet,” She said, extending her hand, “Youngest Holmes. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, John. Well, save for your name. Mum won’t stop talking about ‘Sherlock’s close friend’ who was coming to dinner. It’s fantastic to see that Sherlock has proper feelings. I’ve wondered about him, though I do know he is a big softie underneath.”

She continued jabbering during their walk up to the house. John was struggling to keep up with the onslaught of information. He managed to remember that Violet was Sherlock’s junior by two years; the ages being Violet, Sherlock, Mycroft, Sherrinford. She had just returned from a trip to America visiting Hopkins Medical Center for a study that she was doing for Oxford.

It seemed that all of the Holmes family was brilliant.

***

They were led by Violet to the living room, passing a portrait of each child on their way.

John stopped before the portrait of a younger looking Sherlock. He looked to be about 19 or 20. Though it was beautifully done, the artist had failed to capture the severity of his gaze. Nonetheless, Sherlock looked impeccable. He stood before a garden that was overflowing with flowers of every imaginable color. It contrasted greatly with the sharp black suit that Sherlock’s past was wearing. It was clearly tailored and designer, John expected nothing less. Sherlock’s waist was just as small and his stance just as assertive as John knew it to be. The only significant change was his hair. It was short; really short. Short enough that it didn’t even curl.

“What do you see in this?” Sherlock said. He had stepped up behind John and stared disdainfully as his past self. “The only one worse than this is Mycroft’s. Sherrinford and Violet were perfectly happy with theirs.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with yours, Sherlock. You look rather dashing.” John smiled up at the taller man. He was met with a dismissive hmph as Sherlock took his hand and pulled him away.

As they walked together into the living room, John was shocked with how simple it was. He was expecting Versailles. Instead, the room was simply furnished. There was a large television on the opposite wall. Before them was a very open space, with two couches and an arm chair arranged so that the television is the focus. To the right was a large bookshelf, and to the left was its twin.

“Sherlock, John,” Mycroft said, nodding to each of them, “So good of you to join us.” He was standing behind the large armchair, his hands resting on either side. Seated in the chair was an older woman. John couldn’t bring himself to call her elderly, because the term didn’t fit her. She was old, yes, but she was in no way frail or fragile looking. She sat with a straight back and a direct gaze, eyes very much like Sherlock’s.

“This is our mother, Enola,” Mycroft rested on hand on the woman’s shoulder possessively.

“Hello, Ma’am.” John said, raising one hand and offering it to her.

Enola Holmes took it; her grip unexpectedly firm.

“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Watson,” She said. Her voice was lofty in a way that implied she knew she was important but did not impose it. “It is good to finally see someone compatible with Sherlock. He is always so aloof. Even as a child he never quite fit in with his peers.”  
John didn’t know how to respond to that. He had always known Sherlock to be distant from those not on his level, but he had not expected Enola to be so frank.

“Mother, I am adequately social.” Sherlock said, the hurt concealed from all but John.

“Of course you are, dear,” was her simple reply.

“Dinner is ready,” said a tall man walking into the room. He was the same height as Sherlock, but other than that, he was drastically different from the rest of the Holmes.

“Thank you, Sherrinford,” said Mycroft dismissively.

Sherrinford nodded and took a seat on the couch opposite of Sherlock and John, beside Violet.

John took in the eldest Holmes’s appearance. In contrast to Sherlock and Mycroft’s perfect suits, Sherrinford favored cargo pants and a plain navy polo. His hair was longer and had no curl to it. It was also pale blonde. He was much more relaxed than the rest of them, even more so than Violet. His arms rested across the back of the sofa, muscles pulling at the edges of his sleeves. John couldn’t help but think that Sherrinford was an extremely attractive man.

“Did you cook, Sherri?” asked Violet. She moved over and rested her head companionably on her brother’s shoulder.

“’Course I did,” replied, dropping one arm around her shoulders, “even made you a proper pie, Vi.”

“What kind?”

“Pumpkin, moron.”  


Violet punched him jokingly. He doubled over in mock pain.

Sherlock smiled at the exchange. John smiled because Sherlock was happy.

“Are you ready for dinner, Mother?” Mycroft asked Enola.

“Certainly,” She said and stood. The rest of the room stood with her and went into the dining room.

The table was laden with a multitude of mouth-watering food. John took the seat between Sherlock and Sherrinford; Enola sat at the head of the table. They were silent through most of the meal; the silence occasionally broken by polite conversation.

After, they gathered for tea back in the family room.

“So, John, Sherlock has told us absolutely nothing about you. Rather rude of him, really. Why don’t you tell us about yourself?” asked Violet.

Five pairs of eyes were suddenly turned in his direction.

“There isn’t really much to tell,” John managed. It was true. He didn’t think of his life as the kind to share at dinners. He was trying to think of something significant that he had accomplished when Sherlock butt in.

“John has the Victoria Cross. He was a PMO in Afghanistan,” Sherlock bragged.

“Really now? Congrats, mate.” said Sherrinford, “Guy I used to fuck had one of those I think.”

“Sherrinford, we don’t use that kind of language in present company!” snapped Mycroft, clearly caring about his mother and not anyone else.

“Sorry, Molly,” Sherrinford replied, smirking as Mycroft gave an agitated grunt at being addressed as “Molly.”

“Will you two be staying the night?” Enola looked up from her cup of tea, ignoring the bickering of her sons.

“Afraid not, Mother. We have urgent matters to take care of at home,” Sherlock replied, a bit too quickly.

“Shut up, Sherly,” Violet chimed, “You and John can take your old bedroom.”

That was the end of the matter.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Violet and Enola Holmes are supposed to be the same person, but I thought Enola was better as a mother's name.
> 
> Sherrinford, Violet, and Enola are all headcanon names and not my own. Mycroft is the only ACD canon sibling of Sherlock's.


End file.
